


Margarita on the Half-Shell

by Myst_Knight



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 1987), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7486662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myst_Knight/pseuds/Myst_Knight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Classic Toon universe. A drunken night with Donatello leads to a fissure between Irma and the turtles. With April doing her best to repair the damage, will Irma and Don ever see eye-to-eye again? Donatello/Irma</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: TMNT is owned by Mirage and various other groups. I write this without consent, and am making no money off of it.
> 
> WARNING FOR FLAMERS: This story has strong implications of sex between a human and a mutant turtle. If the thought of such a thing is intolerable, for heavens sake, don't read any further! I'm been having some trouble lately with people who just don't approve of my offbeat ideas. If people continue to proceed despite strong warnings, I don't think I should take all the responsibility.
> 
> This story is dedicated to fans of classic TMNT, cool-but-rude Raph, old-school Shredder, and our favorite romantic receptionist, Irma.

-

-

The sunlight broke through the early morning smog that hovered just above the skyscrapers of New York City, piercing downwards in a series of golden spires fit for a Renaissance artist's landscape. The never-sleeping-city was already lively and bustling, with street vendors selling their wares to passerbys, and the odd shoplifter running from an angry shopkeep. At a modest housing complex in the better side of town, in an open fifth floor window, the wind blew the draperies softly like a scene in an animated movie. It seems the waking hour was encouraging all to get into gear and greet the oncoming day, no matter how much of an energetic night they had.

In the small bedroom on the single bed, the covers were rummaging slightly with the petite, little woman stirring beneath them. Irma was just starting to awaken, and was still a bit out of it. She had gone to sleep with her traditional ponytail still up, so her hair has a tangled, messy quality about it. But the pile of brushes, hair spray canisters, and coffee cluttered at the kitchenette insured that the bacholerette would be well prepped and fueled for another harrowing day as office girl.

The brass-bell alarm clock started ringing on the nightstand beside the bed, as if in sync with its waking owner. A slim hand clumsily reached out to turn it off, knocking it onto the floor in the process; Irma was not a morning person. Searching just to the side where the alarm formally stood, the young woman grabbed a pair of pink glasses and placed the hooks just behind her ears, squinting a few times to get used to the new focus. She groaned groggily, taking in a heavy breath of the flowered fragrance wafting in the open window in a vain attempt to refresh herself.

"Gosh, does anyone know the company that runs the subway that hit me?" Irma groaned, still practically half-asleep. "I'd like to give them a piece of my mind! Oooh...!" A sharp throbbing erupted in her head, and she grabbed the sides of her skull in pain, trying to shake off whatever was giving her the shakes this morning. When the throbbing subsided, she sighed loudly and flopped back down onto the pillow. She stared at the ceiling fan, almost hypnotized by its whirling blades, and tried to get her thoughts in order and figure out why last night's events were so hazy.

Despite her head traumas, she felt surprisingly rejuvenated this morning. It was the same kind of honest energy that came from a hard day's work and a good night's sleep. It made for an awkward amalgam of strength and fraility, but she was willing to run with it. In fact, with a good breakfast of cold cereal and toast, she felt she could take on the world.

"Maybe I should take the 10:35 more often?" Irma pondered to herself, putting a finger to her right dimple. Her mouth erupted into an enthusiastic smile, eyes shining behind their frames. "Hey, I bet I can even get that promotion today!" With a renewed sense of confidence and pep, she bounced on the bed slightly, already plotting how she could use her advancing career to get close to the handsome stud in the executive's lounge. Because while a job was important, a girl had to have her priorities.

She was only able to giggle about this a moment more when she felt the weight on the bed shift to the other side, electing a small gasp from her. Her eyes goggled nearly out of her head as she spied a large, moving lump in the sheets right next to her. Someone was in here with her. Her heart started pounding rapidly, stories of young damsels awakening with open mouths and slit throats running through her head like a child's looping train set.

Reaching back behind her for her trusty frying pan, she slowly leaned forward over the lump in the sheets. Whomever was under there hadn't seemed to notice her; he seemed just as lethargic as she had been a scant five minutes ago. Tentatively, she gathered up the top of the bedspread in her hand, sucking in a large breath between her teeth. Then, she whisked in up in own swift motion and brought her frying pan up to bear, ready to treat this unsavory man to a dose of seasoned punishment.

Irma was certainly surprised to find that what awaited her under the covers was not a man at all, so to speak. Instead, she found a large, humanoid turtle, one of the esteemed Ninja Turtles in fact, wearing a belt, arm and knee guards, and a purple headband to cover his eyes. "Donatello?" she said, recognizing him on sight. She let out a laugh. "Oh, what a relief!"

Then, her mind suddenly clicked. "Donatello, here?..." she murmured, a sickening feeling of dread crawling from the pit of her stomach. She slowly looked down at herself, and found she was wearing even less than her green companion; nothing at all, in fact. Though her memory of last night was already starting to trickle in, it didn't take a techno-genius turtle to figure out what had happened.

In times like this, there was only one thing to do:

Freak the hell out.

"Aieeeeeee!"

* * *

The whole thing started off as an act of good-will on Donatello's part. He heard from April that Irma had been having a hard time as of late, and was often moody and depressed at the office. Yesterday, a quick phone call revealed that Irma had never arrived at home, and April was worried about her touring the streets of NYC in her condition. Though the turtles and Irma were not really close, a request from the hip young reporter demanded action from all those who sought honor, and Donatello answered the call.

When at last he found her, it was around the time of night the turtles usually went patrolling in the Party Wagon. Irma had turned up at a bar primarily for forty-year-olds looking for a good time, surrounded by empty margarita glasses. Her heavy lidded-eyes indicated she was halfway in the bag, as did the streamer of lime-flavored drool leaking from the side of her lip. She hi-cupped twice loudly, a bubble of fruity alcohol floating slowly from her mouth and bursting a moment later in the musty air of the seedy joint.

"Hey, Mr, Bartender," she burbled to the proprietor. "Can I have two more of these green, slushy things?"

The bartender cocked an eyebrow at the intoxicated young woman. "Don't you think you've had enough, little missy? he asked with a disapproving frown.

"I'm not a child," she insisted somewhat loudly, causing a few patrons to look at her in drunken curiosity. "I can (hic) handle it."

He shrugged. "Whatever," the man replied, going back to the rack to mix up another drink. "Just call a cab when you're all done here."

Standing at the doorway, Donatello sweated nervously at Irma continued to put it away even after receiving her sixth drink. This was not good. Irma wasn't even in the condition to call that cab, was barely in the condition to even walk out the door. At this rate, she could be taken advantage of by any number of unsavory individuals, with her man-hungry ways no doubt furthering them along. He had to get her out of here, and the sooner, the better.

Clad in his tan overcoat and fedora, he nudged his way past a few old men playing cards to get to her stool. "Irma?" he ventured slowly, hoping that he could even get her attention, as drunk as she was.

"Who's that?" Irma slurred, looking around hazily for the speaker. "Is that you, Uncle Henry?"

"Irma, it's me, Donatello," he said, trying to make his voice as clear as possible. "April asked me to find you. She said that you were having some trouble."

"Who's having trouble, Unky?" she responded, lifting the glass to her lips once again. "I've never felt better!" With a loud hurking sound, she spat up a sizable amount of margarita onto the worn, wooden bar. She stared at the congealing liquid for a moment before bursting into teary laughter, as if her sickened behavior was somehow comical as self-parody.

Donatello's face soured. "Ah geez, Irma, you're totally smashed!" he said, getting frustrated. "It's Donatello. You know, green skin, genius I.Q.? C'mon, let's get you back to your apartment." He reached out to grab her arm and pull her off the stool.

Irma shook the offending appendage off. "I don't care if you're President Reagan!" she gurbled, taking up a defensive posture. "I'm not moving!"

Donatello reared back, shocked by her stubbornness. "Irma, why are you doing this?" he asked slowly, trying to reason with her as best he could. "What are you gonna gain by sticking around this dump?"

Her response was swift and unabashed. "Boyfriend (hic) material." She took another sip of her margarita, miraculously managing to keep it down this time. "Only the drunken, deadbeat losers hit on me! So that's why I'm here! To get (hic) hit on!"

At this new information, the purple-banded turtle was left at a loss for words. "Irma, I...well, uh, it can't be that bad, can it?" he tried, feeling like his query was going to come up with a big negative.

"Uh huh!" Irma exclaimed, slamming her glass down on the bar. "I haven't had a date in two months! I hit every singles bar I could find! Nobody was interested in me, except that one woman when I accidentally went into that lesbian club!"

Twitching slightly at this odd confession, Donatello waited out the brief pause in dialogue as she took another sip of her umpteenth margarita. "So now, I'm just going for the common, everyday man," she continued, a sense of finality in her voice. "No more studs and hotties for me! Hey, I'll even take a (hic) tattoo artist if he's interested!" She slumped down on the bar in defeat, nearly knocking down her glass in the process.

Donatello looked down at the miserable woman, and started to fill a little miserable himself. As goofy as she could be, he had never seen the usually vibrant Irma so down in the dumps like this. She had experienced ups and downs with the dating game before, but it had never come to this: offering herself up to the lowest common denominators (and actually knowing they were the lowest common denominators). Her sorrow was infectious, and his heart flew to her.

Scooting onto the seat beside her, he put a three-fingered hand on her shoulder. "Come on, you don't have to lower your standards like this," he told her gently, putting as much comfort into his words as he could. "You're a very nice looking woman!"

"Really?" Irma looked up at him with wide eyes, like a child in need of convincing that she wasn't the worst softball player on the team.

He couldn't say no to eyes like those. "Sure!" he said with false enthusiasm, favoring her with a weak smile. "I mean, you're nice, and funny, and...er...you have really cute brown hair!" Though the last part came out somewhat weak, Donatello was determined to finish up strong. "Anyone would be lucky to have you!"

At that, Irma's eyes widened for a moment, the statement slurging its way through her scrambled brain. Then, the eyes narrowed into lazy slits, like a lioness spying an easy catch. "Anyone...like you, handsome?" she inquired, a sacked sexiness in her voice.

"Yeah...w-what?" Donatello did a double-take at the amorous office girl, subconsciously wrenching away from her. The look in her eyes was not unlike those in the eyes of Rocksteady and Bebop, a look that clearly said: 'I'm dumb, and full of trouble.'

"Come on, you...off-colored stud," she crooned, putting her own arm around the turtle's fat neck. "Tell me more about my brown cute hair, and I'll tell you more about...your features." She took a glance at his crotch, and started raising her eyebrows suggestively.

The reptile man was starting to panic now. Gizmos and gadgets were his forte, not drunken women. "Irma, this isn't like you," he said, pulling away as far as he could while still remaining on his stool. "You don't know what you're saying!"

Irma suddenly went into puppy-dog mode again. "You mean you don't think I'm nice and funny after all?" she whimpered, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Donatello froze up to her pleading expression. "Well, um..." he babbled, his mind wracked with finding a solution to this dilemma. A genius he may have been, but he had nothing.

She took his indecisiveness as a sign of apology. "Great!" she cheered, then turned to call the barkeep. "Hey Mr. Bartender! Two more for my friend here."

"You sure he outta be drinkin'?" the bartender asked, looking at the turtle sceptically. "He looks kinda green around the gills."

"It's alright," she assured him. "He's a giant, mutant turtle, you know."

The bartender shook his head with disdain at the slovenly lady, then walked off to get more top-shelf booze. And Donatello was at a loss for what to do. He was effectively trapped at the bar until he could convince Irma to come along with him. "Well, at least she doesn't think I'm her uncle anymore," he muttered to herself, looking with trepidation at the dizzy dame.

The bartender arrived with the drinks, and Irma immediately offered one to him. "Alright, bottoms up!" she said, thrusting it right in front of his face.

Donatello stared with mild worry at the alcoholic beverage in front of him. He had never drunken anything stronger then coffee, and that was only for keeping him working late nights. _But if it'll make Irma happy..._ he reminded himself, slowing taking the glass from the woman's outstretched hand. He ventured a sip, letting the crisp flavor spread over his large tongue. _This will probably go well with pizza..._

Six drinks and a drunken turtle later, the rest was history.

* * *

Back in the present, Irma was busy hurling any object not tied down at the teen turtle. "You green-skinned barbarian!" she shrieked, holding a towel in front of her body with one hand, and a pawn-shop vase in the other. "You scaly scoundrel!" she continued, throwing the object on a collision course with his head, which he was just able to dodge. "Defiler! Perv! You...water imp!" A fashion magazine, a pillow, and a ceramic duck all found themselves flying in the general direction of Donatello, who was scrambling faster and faster to keep up with the impromptu projectiles.

"Now, let's just calm down now," he tried, suddenly jerking to the side to avoid a desk lamp. "I mean, it was an accident, right?"

"Do you know what this is going to do to my appeal!" she hollered, grabbing a handful of newspapers and flinging them at him. "I won't even be able to get a date with a truck-stop jerk! They can smell 'turtle' on you a mile away! I'm ruined for life!"

"Ruined for life?" The turtle was goggling at the insulting implication of her words. "Now hold on a second, Irma...!"

"And not to mention my career!" Irma stopped tossing debris long enough to throw her hands up in exasperation. "Channel 6 wouldn't just fire me if they found out, they'd make me their top story! I'll be front page of the National Enquirer within a week! 'Crazy Office Girl Shacks Up with Amorous Amphibian!'"

"No one's going to find out!" he insisted, desperately trying to get through to her. "I'm sure this was just a one-time thing!"

"You bet it was!" she roared, turning on her heel and heading over to the kitchen sink, clasped the edge of it. "Because I don't want to see you or your friends within ten feet of me ever again!" With a herculean effort, she wretched it clear out of the cabinet, making Donatello's eyes goggle at the secretary-turned-superwoman. "You...teenage...mutant...ninja...TURTLE!" Deciding that was the worst insult she could come up with, she hurled the sink straight at him like a cyclops hurling a boulder, knocking him straight out the open window and into the dumpster below.

Surrounded by mounds of trash, Donatello looked up wearily towards the fifth story window, trying to make sense of this whole crazy situation. Then, he grabbed onto his head, and groaned loudly. "Man, I've got a hangover..." he muttered, trying to shake off the effects of the alcohol.

He konked out shortly thereafter, as Irma started to scrub her body with a scour in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the scent of turtle.

* * *

When Irma arrived at the Channel Six building ten minutes late, she didn't head over to her desk. She didn't stop at Burne Thompson's office to apologize, or even at the snack vendor for a cheap pastry. She went right for April O'Neal's office and grabbed the reporter by the front of her yellow jumpsuit. "April, help!" she cried, nearly strangling her with the intense grip she had on the other woman's apparel. "I just had sex with a mutant turtle!"

"W-What...?" April stammered, trying to make sense out of what she said. "You..."

It took only a few minutes for Irma to blurt out the entire story to her best friend, with lots of strong gestures and exaggerating throughout the explanation. When at last she was done, April adopted a sort of angry-matron expression. "Irma, how could you!" she reprimanded, shocked and appalled. "Taking advantage of a poor turtle like that!"

"I don't know how it happened!" she protested, waving her arms frantically. "I was lonely and drunk!" Then, she blinked, an oddity in April's question making itself known to her. "Wait, why aren't you grossed out that I did it with a talking reptile?" she asked, curiosity overtaking the panic flooding her system.

"Oh that?" April's eyes were wide, honestly shocked. "Well, I guess I've just spent so much time around the guys, that I don't give the idea of human/turtle relationships much thought," she decided, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly.

"Aprilllll!" Irma wailed like a petulant child. She couldn't believe what she was hearing!

"Oh, come on, why are YOU so grossed out?" April countered, as if Irma was the one who had lost her mind. "I mean, for heaven's sake, Irma, you date robots!"

"That's different!" the mousy woman insisted, folding her arms. "Rex was a stud!" Reaching into her handbag, she pulled out a photo featuring a beefy-looking robot in uniform. "Oh Rex! Why did you have to take that construction job in Ohio?" Irma's eyes watered over with unshed tears.

April sighed, and laid a hand on Irma's shoulder. "Don't worry," she comforted her. "This will all come to pass, you'll see. You'll be back to your old self in no time, and you'll practically forget all about this."

Irma wasn't convinced, and continued to stare at the picture of Rex. "How can I forget about making love to a turtle?" she asked in disbelief. "I know I'll never forget about making love to a robot."

April sweated. "I...don't think I needed to hear that, Irma," she said in between clenched teeth.

* * *

Next- Part 2 of "Margarita on the Half-Shell"


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irma thinks about making up with Donatello, but then a surprise intruder appears.

* * *

Things didn't just come to pass. Irma spent the next three days taking thorough pregnancy tests to see if she was harboring half-human/half-mutant spawn resembling something from a demented cult classic. For Donatello's part, he tried his best to to make it up to her in any way possible. But whenever the turtles would meet up with Irma by happenstance, the dialogue would go something like this:

April O'Neal: "Guys, I just heard from a reliable source that Shredder's planning on knocking over the antique cutlery for a ceremonial sword used to ritually sacrifice young women!"

Leonardo: "We're on it, April!"

Irma: "You should ask Donatello to lead. He knows all about taking the sword to young ladies!"

Michelangelo: "But Irma, Leo's the guy that trains with swords!"

Donatello: "That's not what she means, Michelangelo..."

Irma: "Hmph!"

After a few more days of this, April was getting tired of the snippy conversations and euphemisms flying about whenever they would discuss the latest mission. The turtles were completely out of sorts, and Irma just would not let it go. Finally, April decided that enough was enough, and approached Irma with an ultimatum. Either Irma made up with the turtles, or she could say goodbye to the Victoria's Secret shopping spree April was going to let her have.

That's what Irma was doing now: trudging through the sewers to the turtle's lair deep within. The stench of the filthy waters was aggravating her sinuses, and periodically she would take heaving breaths to try and recover some sense of lucidity. Also, the round tunnels that carried the sludge to and fro made for a very claustrophobic experience, and she periodically took off her glasses to blur her vision and help rid herself of the closed off feeling. Being stuck at a desk job was bad enough; she couldn't quite cope with a sewer system.

"Why do sewers have to be so dirty?" Irma complained, trying to skip past the trails of slime leaking from the cracks in the walls. She glanced down at her feet, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "My new shoes!" They were almost completely soaked by sewage, and there was a green substance on the sole that she was reluctant to ponder where it originated from. "April owes me big time for this!" she said to herself, putting her hands on her hips and stamping her foot in a childish display of temperament.

If you were to get the honest truth out of Irma, though, she was planning on coming down to the sewer anyway. With a friend like April, avoiding the turtles was like avoiding income tax, or laundry day, or all the other things she ended up doing at the last minute because she was disorganized. It just wasn't possible to live her life turtle-free for more than a few weeks at most. And hey, this way she'd be able to choose from all sorts of different sexy underwear...just so long as they weren't green.

Stopping at an intersection of tunnels, Irma regarded the rough map April had given her. "Okay, so I'm here, then that means the turtle's lair should be this way!" she told herself, looking back and forth to make sure that she was facing the correct direction. Upon finding a beam of light extended from a tunnel to her left, her face erupted in a smile. "Yes!" she cried out, taking off in a sprint towards the turtle's lair. "This is it!"

Quickly arriving at the turn leading to the light-soaked tunnel, Irma eagerly burst onto the scene. "Guys, it's Irma!" she said, running blindly forward. "I wanted to tell you that..huh?" The weird figure within view didn't match the weird figures she was expecting to run into. Taking off her glasses for a moment, she rubbed the lenses free of the condensation that had built up on then, placing them back on her face after a moment. She took a good long look at the shape, blinked twice, and tried to figure out why in the world she kept running into creatures like this.

"Soon, those pesky Mario Bros. will be no more, once I deliver them this shrinking potion disguised as cough syrup!" King Koopa cackled to himself, rubbing the aforementioned object in his hands like he was trying to summon a genie. "Then, Princess Toadstool and her kingdom will be all mine!" His maniacal laughing was cut short when he became privy to the intruder who had stumbled upon him and his nefarious plan. "Hey, who the heck are you?" he snapped, looking defensive and clutching the potion tightly to his chest.

"Oops, sorry!" Irma apologized, backing away slowly. "Wrong mutant turtle." She chuckled nervously, putting a hand to the back of her head as she eased on out. Then she turned heel, and made a break for it.

Five minutes later, when Irma arrived at the real entrance to the turtle's lair, she was filled with considerably less spunk then before. If that was some sort of cosmic preview of events to come, she wasn't looking forward to the main show. But she had already come this far, and it wouldn't do to ruin her best clothes for nothing. With a final breath and a fresh batch of courage, she stared at the entrance for a second more, then tromped her way in.

If she had known what awaited her there, she would've definitely stayed home.

The entire homey little dwelling had become an anti-Irma shrine, complete with enough paraphernalia to fill a comic book convention. Pictures displaying a crossed-out Irma hung on banners, and there was a pile of Playmates Toon Irma action figures roasting in a bonfire just to the side of the TV. Raphael was about to throw a dart at the anti-Irma dartboard, when he turned to regard the woman with a scowl. "Well, look who's decided to grace us with her presence," he said sarcastically, folding his arms like the wise-guy he was. "Just in time for the anti-Irma slide show."

"Boo, Irma!" Michelangelo hollered from the couch, putting his hand to his mouth like a heckler at a Mets game. "Irma, boooooo!"

"What's going on here?" Irma demanded, feeling completely out of place among the huge collection of herself. "What's with all this stuff? And why did you choose my company photo for the banner? That picture didn't get my good side at all!"

"I don't think the intent of all this is to flatter you," Raphael drawled, a certain wry amusement beneath the scorn he held for the woman.

"Irma, do you know how Donatello's been taking this whole thing?" Leonardo entered the main living area, and everyone turned to face the leader of the mutant teen heroes. "He's been holed up in his room for two straight days, and hasn't even come up with a single invention to show for it. Your rejection of him, rejection of us, really took a number on his self-esteem."

"Dude's like a zombie!" Michelangelo added in. "He doesn't even eat pizza like he used to!"

"Michelangelo's right, you know," Leonardo nodded sagely, staring at Irma like a stern father figure. "Your words are razor sharp to his gentle nature. And since you won't take any responsibility for this, he's taking all the blame himself. Splinter's been trying to reason with him, but he just hasn't been the same since that night. He's less and less of a ninja every second."

Irma was dumbstruck by the turtle's monologue, and felt a bit pensive. "Wow, I didn't know I was such a big hit with him," she said almost to herself. Then, a thought occurred to her, and she started fluffing her mouse-brown locks. "Of course, with feminine charm like mine, was there any doubt?" she boasted, batting her eyelashes in 50s-movie-star fashion.

"Irma..." Leonardo deadpanned, a dull look in his eyes.

"Right, sorry," Irma amended, shaking off the brief burst of vanity. "But really, you guys are mutant turtles!" she began once again, trying to make sure the obvious was clear to them. "You can't expect me to start going dutch with you all or something!"

"Maybe not," he agreed, in the same tone he had been speaking in all along. "But we've helped you countless times in the past, without asking for anything in return. The least you can do is forgive Donatello for one isolated incident. Are you that selfish, Irma, that you can't even do that?"

"But...but..." Irma was stammering, trying to come up with something, anything to say in her defense. Here she was, an innocent victim of circumstance, and they were acting like she was the bad guy! Did they even know how many showers it took to get the turtle smell off after she and Donatello did their thing? It was like cleaning a grease trap!

And the ironic thing was, underneath all her indignation, she had the sinking feeling that Leonardo has a point. She was treating all them like disgusting freaks, even though most of them didn't do anything at all to her. From the very fact that Donatello wasn't in the room, she knew that he was suffering all by his lonesome. Who could blame the turtles for wanting to protect their own?

As if to beat in this unpleasant thought, Raphael walked over to the entrance and motioned towards it. "Irma, it's time for you to go," he said coldly, for once completely serious.

Irma stared at the red-garbed brother with a hurt expression, then looked out at the group as a whole. All three of the turtles had stern frowns wrinkling up their normally goofy-looking faces, even Michelangelo. There was no help to be found here, and the woman was starting to wonder if she even deserved it. So, carrying with her the first twinges of guilt that she had felt in a long time, she sadly walked out of the turtle's lair, back to surface-world life, and another afternoon of deep, miserable thought.

* * *

The inside of Irma's apartment was much the same as it had been the day had a turtle sharing her bed. The various objects she had thrown at Donatello were still scattered about on the floor, and the broken vase hadn't even been swept away from the wall it crashed against. It was like a forsaken temple devoted to the mistaken night of passion that had occurred a scant week ago. A temple that the young woman apparently still worshiped at, since nothing had been moved or even touched at all.

Irma laid awake on the bed in the middle of the afternoon, dressed in her usual sweater and ankle-length skirt. Her feet absently kicked on the soft mattress, and her hands supported the back of her head along with her pillow. Once again, she was mesmerized by the simple ceiling fan, as if it were somehow mixing her thoughts like a food processor. It really didn't matter how mixed up her thinking was, anyway; it all came back to turtles.

Irma moaned in frustration, and turned to the side so she was now lying on her stomach. She stayed like this for a moment more, burying her face in the pillow as if making an attempt at self-suffocation. Eventually, her eyes wandered towards the large, cellular phone at her bedside, possibly the only object that wasn't on the floor. She hesitated for a brief moment, feeling somewhat bothered, then quickly snatched it up and dialed in a number before she lost her nerve.

The phone rang twice before the other line picked up. "Hello?" a strong, feminine voice spoke through the speaker.

"Hi, it's me," Irma responded, wasting no time with preamble. "I really gotta talk to you."

"Turtle troubles getting you down?" April quipped knowingly, already knowing where this conversation was going to lead.

"April, it's terrible!" she practically whined, hoping off the bed so she could pace around the apartment with her phone. "They're all giving me the cold-shoulder! You should've seen the pinatas they have of me hanging up! I mean, they're attractive, but still."

"Not so nice being on the other end of things, is it?" the other woman said, as means of delivering a hard lesson to her.

"Yeah," Irma agreed, not without some shame. "I didn't think being snubbed by a bunch of mutants would be so bad, but it's like being back in high school again. I just feel awful about about the whole thing. I mean, I should be glad I got with the cute one instead of the others."

"That's a good attitude to have...hey what do you mean 'the cute one?'" April cut off the pat-on-the-back to instead question her co-worker. "They all look exactly the same!"

"That's not true!" Irma argued, a sudden temper coming through in her speech. "Donatello has bigger dimples and wider eyes. Plus, purple's my favorite color."

"Yes, well, I'll set up a meeting with you and and turtles at 9:00 tonight," April interrupted, eager to get back on topic. "I'll be there the whole time to mediate. We'll get this sorted out yet!"

"Would you, April?" Irma gushed through the speaker, a beaming smile coming to her face. "That's so nice!"

"Hey, what are friends for?" April laughed goodnaturedly.

Irma's smile persisted, and she felt a large weight begin to lift from her shoulders. as if she had just taken off heavy chain mail. Finally, she'd be able to show the turtles she wasn't nearly as bad as they thought she was!

That was before a large, gauntlet-clad hand suddenly wrapped around her mouth, cutting off any further speech. Horrified, she watched as a second hand snatched up the cellular phone from her weakening grasp. "I'm sorry, your call has been shredded," a deep, villainous voice spoke as if through a tin can. "Please hang up, and dial again." The hand quickly clicked off the phone before April even had a chance to respond, and threw the device casually on the mattress.

Irma was struggling fiercely against the mystery man's grip, which bound her tightly against his tall form. Left with no other option, she clamped her teeth down on the inside of his hand, electing a brief roar of pain from her captor. She quickly took the opportunity to break away and get a closer look at the intruder. "Oh no!" she gasped, putting her hands to her mouth. "The Shredder!"

"That's right, Irma!" Shredder said intensely, his huge armored frame not quite matching up to the kitten-like treatment he was giving his injured palm. "And you will pay dearly for that!"

"W-what do you want with me this time?" she asked fearfully, backing up against the wall. "Can't you leave a girl alone with her boy problems?"

"Irma, Irma, Irma," the masked man crooned, taking a mock-casual stance. "Don't be like that! We've missed you since the last kidnapping. We figured it was time we catch up! You can bet it will be a slashing good time!"

At this typical bad-guy pun, the room erupted with two distinct, raunchy laughs. Irma looked over to the side to find that her two least favorite mutants, Rocksteady and Bebop, were here and whooping it up, showing off their craggy, seldom-brushed teeth. Their blasters were trained on the young woman, ready to toast her if she had even made the slightest attempt at escape. She has about as much chance of escape as a rat in a maze with a Mouser on the job.

Nevertheless, Irma managed to wear a brave face. "You goons will never get away with this!" she yelled out to the villains, putting her hands on her hips. "The turtles are gonna come and..."

"Not so!" Shredder swiftly broke in with a wave of his hand. "The word from my Foot agents informs me that you and the turtles aren't getting along so well. A lovely story involving a romantic tryst with their technology expert, candlelight, or...something like that. Anyhow, I doubt they'll come." His tone took a turn for the flippant as the details escaped him.

Irma almost fell to her knees. "I can't believe it," she moaned, her body becoming rigid with tension. "Even the bad guys know I did with a turtle!" A thought came to her, and her expression grew contemplative. "Gee, I wonder how Donatello's going to take it when the bad guys can tease him about his sex life?" she murmured, her gaze becoming diverted from the oncoming threat.

"Heh heh, (snort) looky here!" Bebop chucked, his beady pig eyes shining with ill-conceived mirth. "She's worried about her toitle boyfriend!"

"Y-yeah!" Rocksteady guffawed, sneering. "I bet she's gonna get all dreamy-eyed soon!"

"Oh my gosh, you're right!" Irma suddenly exclaimed, as if in sudden realization. "I am worried about Donatello! It's worse than I thought! I'M BECOMING A TURTLE-LOVER!"

Two minutes later, they managed to drag Irma off from the apartment complex to their hidden lair. But not before she had alerted half the tenants with her frantic, turtle-induced screaming.

* * *

"Irma's been kidnapped again?" Donatello yelled into the turtle-com, his expression wrought with concern.

"That's right!" April was saying from her own communicator, frantic with worry. "We just got word an hour ago that her apartment had been broken into! There were no witnesses, but my money's on the Foot! This kind of job has Shredder written all over it!"

"I'll say!" Donatello agreed, rubbing the back of his head. "We better get her out of there, and fast!"

"What's the big hurry, Donatello?" Raphael questioned lazily, picking his teeth with a ninja star. "They probably won't do anything with her until at least nightfall. We probably have time to grab a quick quesadilla before we show up whatever dump they're using as a hideout."

"For once, I'm in agreement," Leonardo said, standing firmly in the view of the communicator's in-built video camera. "Irma never appreciates when we risk our lives to rescue her. Why should we come running when she gets in trouble again?"

"Plus, the monster truck show's coming on at six," Michelangelo reminded everyone, stopping from his pizza-gorging to peer at the turtle-com.

"Guys, I can't believe you're being so cold!" April was practically horrified. "This is my best friend we're talking about!"

"Yeah!" Donatello said, scowling at the rest of his group. "And plus, it's Irma! She can be a mega klutz, but we've all been through so much together. There's no way we can let her down now." He turned back to the image of April on the turtle-com. "We're on it!" Swiftly clicking the device off, he checked his shell to make sure his bo was firmly strapped on. Satisfied that all was well, he immediately ran out the entrance of the turtle lair, ready to prep the Party Wagon for a harrowing drive.

The other three turtles stared dumfounded by their brother's take-charge attitude. Then, Raphael let out a small, ironic chuckle. "Heh, looks like Donatello's turning into a real lover boy," he stated, smiling at the departing silhouette of the purple turtle.

"Totally!" Michelangelo agreed, his mouth still full of mozzarella.

* * *

Inside a small, abandoned warehouse, preparations were well underway. Irma was strapped to a large, black machine with a round, energy dome on top, and varying electrodes were hooked up to her head, arms, and hips. She was just able to move her head from side to side to observe Rocksteady and Bebop fiddling with the varying knobs and levers under the strict eye of their master. That master was currently very frustrated at the expertise of his two minions, who were once again showing their talent at ineptitude.

"Dah, what does 'dis do?" Bebop was saying, pointing a mutated finger to a large red button just to the side of the feedback monitors.

"Stop, you pinhead!" Shredder snapped, quickly rushing over to make sure he didn't do anything stupid. "That's the self-destruct button! If you push that, this whole facility is finished, along with our test subject!"

"What's the big deal, boss?" Rocksteady piped up, ceasing his work on the machine to stare at his master. "I mean, we're just gonna kill her anyway, right?"

"Kill me?" Irma squeaked, feeling the hairs on her arms stand on end. "Okay, that's it!" she suddenly barked, clenching her fists and furrowing her eyebrows. "You three are going to tell me what's going on right now!"

"Glad you asked, Irma," Shredder answered her, once again the gracious host. He walked over to the west wall and grabbed a large Japanese 'tachi' that was propped against the wall. "This ceremonial sword, the Gate Blade, was once used in feudal times by the Shadow Clan to ritually sacrifice young maidens to their dark god," he explained, drawing its shining blade from the ornate sheath. "When the maiden was slain, the gates of chaos will open, and the god would grant the clan power to defeat anyr enemies on the side of righteousness."

"But then what is this machine for?" Irma questioned, her mind conveniently skipping past the part about sacrificing young maidens.

"Before now, the dark god would only give enough dark power for the Shadow Clan to conquer their current enemy," he continued, turning away from her for the moment. Then, he pointed the sword towards his gargantuan machine. "But now, with my Shadow Siphon, I can draw an endless amount of energy! Once the Time of Darkness has come, I will expose your young blood and activate the machine. And then, once I have enough energy, I will finally have the ability to make the turtles submit!"

"So, um, when is the Time of Darkness?" the young woman asked, blinking innocently up at her captor.

"7:33 PM, Eastern Standard Time," he said, causally placing the Gate Blade back in its sheath. "Now, I must rest, and prepare for the coming ritual." With a swish of his violet cape, Shredder proceeded to the other half of the warehouse, where he knelt down and began his meditation exercises.

A silence overtook the four of them, and for a while, the only thing that could be heard was the steady humming of the Shadow Siphon. Then, Irma turned towards the two mutant henchmen. "Hey, when this is all done, you want to get a bite to eat?" she asked bluntly, staring right at their ugly faces.

Bebop raised a nonexistent eyebrow. "(snort) You hittin' on us, lady?" he asked roughly, chewing on some inedible substance lodged in his cheeks.

"I think I've already been ruined for human men," she said in a deadpan voice. "Might as well start looking for other options now."

"Heh heh, she likes me!" Rocksteady giggled giddily, putting his hands up to his face as if blushing. "I'm 100% beefcake!"

"Nuh uh!" Bebop countered, turning to glare at his partner-in-crime. "She likes ME!"

"Me!"

"ME!"

"Would you two numbskulls shut up!" Shredder screamed out, shaking his fist angrily. "I'm trying to meditate here!"

"Sorry, boss," came the simultaneous response from the two aforementioned numbskulls.

Irma snorted derisively, turning her nose up at the villains. "Well, I don't care about your big machine," she said, closing her eyes in a huff. "Donatello will rescue me anyway."

"Hah!" Shredder's laugh was bitter and snide. "After how you treated him?"

"That's right!" she persisted, staring at the terrible tinman in defiance. "Donatello would never let a girl like me fall into the hands of thugs like you. He'll find me sooner or later. He has a 153 I.Q.!"

"154, actually," a quirky voice spoke from the shadows. Irma, Bebop, Rocksteady, and Shredder all turned to the left to find a figure leaning against the doorway leading outside, with brawy, crossed arms and piercing white eyes. He was wearing the trenchcoat and fedora he used for daytime travel, and a large bo-staff was slung on his back. Most telling of all, though, was his green, bulbous head and the purple bandanna that covered it, pointing out the identity of the one turtle who could soundly whoop your butt and then surgically replace your broken bones with bionics.

"Donatello!" Irma cheered, a bright smile shining forth. "Boy, am I glad to see you!"

"Hey, Irma!" Donatello greeted cheerily, tossing her a devil-may-care grin. "Hope I'm not too late!"

"It's that blasted turtle!" Shredder roared, coming to arms with sword in hand. "Bebop! Rocksteady! Get them!"

"With pleasure, boss!" Bebop snickered, raising his ray gun as Rocksteady took up his own blaster.

Donatello steadied himself, and pulled his bo up to bear. With an agile leap, he flew down towards the goon squad, moving in between their lasers to do what turtles did best. Bebop barely had time to flinch in horror before the radical reptile broght his bo across his jaw, knocking him for a loop. He then jammed the staff into the ground, and spun around it like a flag pole to deliver a double kick to Rocksteady's rhino snout, sending him tumbling back into the wall.

Irma watched with amazement as the green teen continued to take care of business. Already, the other two mutants were out for the count, leaving only Shredder and his Gate Blade. "I'll slice you into turtle cutlets!" he growled, raising his sword, and then sending it crashing down at Donatello's head. But the turtle brought his bo up just in time, and tho wood staff held firm against the cold steel blade.

"You look like you've had a stressed out week too, Shredder," Donatello taunted, gritting his teeth under the strain. "And I know from experience that the best thing for you is some down-time!" With a mighty shove, he pushed the sword out of the way, leaving the Japanese conqueror off balance. Then, he span a three-toed foot straight into Shredder's unguarded stomach area, knocking the wind out of him. Shredder groaned and staggered a bit, trying desperately to stay in the fight.

Then, his legs gave out, and he fell unconscious to the cold, unforgiving concrete. The Gate Blade spun away from Shredder's hand and embedded itself in the floor, like the holy sword it wasn't, never to be unearthed again.

Donatello casually dusted his hands off, put away his bo, then proceed to the Shadow Siphon and Irma. Making as if to immediately unhook her from the machine, he immediately got distracted by the large contraption of metal and mechanics. He peered at every part of it with a steady eye, recording each detail in that incredible brain of his. "This thing will never work!" he finally decided, grimacing at the device. "Too much power to the fluctuation drive."

Irma shook her head in astonishment. "For a computer nerd, you sure know how to show a girl a good time," she quipped, smiling with unabashed pride for her lean, green savior.

Donatello turned from the machine at her, a bit startled by the trademark Irma back-hand compliment. But soon, his big turtle mouth quirked upwards in an ironic, but benevolent smile. As rocky as their relationship was, they did know each other and even understood each other. Irma's sweet-tart disposition was as good an indicator as any that this whole mess was, at last, starting to clear up.

* * *

At 8:00 in the evening, the roads were surprisingly barren of traffic and concourse. The street lamps only illuminated stray dogs rummaging in the trash for whatever would feed them for the night; other than that, there was little else. It was a good time and a bad time depending on where you were in town; if it was a bad part of town, you'd better watch out for thugs, kidnappers, and worse still: ninjas. But if you were in the company of a ninja yourself, you could pretty much take a wizz on a mob boss' head and still turn out alright, if you were inspired to do just that.

"Thanks for walking me home, Donatello," Irma told the ninja turtle as she stood in front of the door to the apartment complex.

"Hey, no biggie," Donatello responded generously, rubbing the back of his fedora-covered head.

"And..." The woman halted for a brief moment, fumbling with the words. "...sorry for all the trouble this week." She turned a sheepish gaze towards him, biting her lip.

"Oh..uh, sure," he said, shifting his gaze to the sidewalk. "My fault too, you know..." Awkward in the memory of their disastrous night, he quickly changed the subject. "But Irma, I thought you didn't really like us very much," he queried, bringing his eyes back to meet hers. "You know, how you'd always tell April she needed to hang out with real men?"

"Oh heck, you fellas really grew on me after a while!" Irma giggled in spite of herself. "Hanging out with turtles is a lot more fun then being stood up on Friday night."

She starting laughing lightly, and Donatello soon joined her. It had been an exhausting five days, and both of them were just about ready to unwind.

The terrapin's face grew serious once again. "I meant what I said in the bar," he started, looking at her straight in the eye. "You really are quite pretty, nice, and everything else a guy could want. Don't forget that."

"Donatello..." she mumbled, a red blush coming to her cheeks.

In a surprising show of dash, Donatello took Irma's hand, bent down, and laid a small kiss upon it, courtesy of his beak-shaped mouth. "Au revoir, ma chere," he said, tossing her a playful wink. Then, with a swish of his overcoat, he walked onto the sidewalk and made his way back downtown, his hands in his pockets for a very Humphey Bogart look. A moment later, and he was gone, back towards the sewers and his underground life, ready to come out of the shadows anytime someone needed him.

Irma stared blank-faced at the street where Donatello has departed for a moment more, then turned around and headed into her apartment building. Moving on automatic, she traversed the floors until she arrived at her door, which she promptly unlocked and opened. Walking around the clutter that still covered the carpet, she headed immediately to the bed, staring at it as if it were her spiritual salvation.

Then, she toppled onto the bed face first, sending a few pillows flying off to the sides. She sighed deeply, her breath blowing away the film of dust that had gathered on the sheets.

"So I'm in love with a mutant turtle," Irma said to herself, her gaze somewhat distant. "Who knew?"

* * *

'Fin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Super Mario Bros. Super Show is owned by DIC and Nintendo.


End file.
